


Storefront Incarnation

by romanticalgirl



Series: behind the song [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Plead sanctuary</p><p>Based on the Bruce Springsteen song "Lost in the Flood"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storefront Incarnation

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 6-5-08

Johnny sits on the curb watching with big eyes that see too much, or so his Momma says. He gets called inside the day Old Man Avery’s son comes home, his mother ushering him inside quickly when the taxi stops just down the block. He peers out the window instead, pushing back the curtain, yellow with cigarette smoke, and watching as Gunnery Sergeant Mark Avery, the boy every Dad wants his son to be, steps out of the car in his uniform, looking around like he’s still somewhere stuck in the swamps and jungles instead of a downtown street in the middle of Jersey.

Johnny’s mother calls him back, but he waves her off, watching Mr. Avery stand at the top of the steps and stare down at his son. Mark acts like he doesn’t even see him, like he’s staring with sightless eyes. His insignia blinks in the sunlight and then disappears as he climbs the stairs.

Johnny sits on the curb every day, watching the neighborhood go by. Eventually people stop going by to see Mark and his old man, women stop bringing casseroles and the men stop dropping by with beer. Nothing much changes until one day Johnny’s watching Mary Beth Knowlton in her bedroom window doing things he shouldn’t see. He looks away, blushing and hot in places he shouldn’t be, and sees Mark Avery standing on the steps of his house with something long and dark in his hands. 

And then Johnny doesn’t see anything anymore.

**

Marcus bounces on the balls of his feet, watching his older brother rev his engine and then pop the clutch, peeling off down the street like he’s bound hard for hell. Everyone else is watching Jimmy the Saint, listening to the high pitched squeal of his girl as he turns her over. She’s shining in red, white and blue like Jimmy’s got God and America on his side, but Marcus knows that Adam’s gonna win the race. Jimmy’s got nothing on Adam’s new engine, souped up and shined like a sacrifice to the Gods of Chevrolet.

Adam ignores Jimmy when he pulls back into line, waiting for Maria to flag off the guys in front of him. Jimmy’s flipping shit the way he always does and Marcus hurries over. He knows there’s no way Adam will let him ride, but he wants to see the race up close, wants to feel it. He jumps into Jimmy’s back seat, crouching down. He wants to see him lose, wants to hear the curse words fall from the Saint’s lips.

Jimmy flips Adam off and jumps in the front seat, revving his motor as they jockey into position. Marcus knows Maria’s swaying her hips and waving the flag over her head. He can see the flash of pink out of the corner of his eye. Jimmy laughs and starts talking to himself, talking about a blaze of glory, a Hail Mary in a hurricane. Marcus sinks lower, scared of being found out, pressed back against the seat as everything goes up in a roar of engines and the smell of burning gasoline.

Marcus straightens just enough to see, keeping out of Jimmy’s line of sight, not that he seems to be seeing anything but the road ahead. He’s still talking, rambling now, making no sense at all. Marcus feels the fear blossoming inside his chest as Jimmy jerks the wheel, heading straight for Adam’s car now. Marcus wants to scream, the sound caught in his throat as they barely manage to miss Adam’s car. Jimmy lets go of the wheel - a sinner, not a saint – headed straight for the concrete embankment. Marcus never screams and Jimmy only laughs.

**

Bobby’s been walking this beat for nearly two weeks, fresh out of the Academy and hitting the sidewalks while his partner, Jeff, spends his time in titty bars, drinking beers and sucking on Lifesavers Pep-O-Mints for the last hour of his shift, hiding the smell of hops and barley, passing the smoke off as doing his duty on the dark side of town. 

Bobby doesn’t know Spanish, so the Marias and the Pedros and the Guadalupes ignore him like he’s not even there. He hears them talking and knows the words gringo and policia and a few other curse words that Jeff laughed at, spitting them back at the young girls in white dresses, skirts flouncing around dark legs as they turned away, still giggling and whispering under their breath.

He keeps his hand on his weapon they way they taught him and walks in a slow perimeter, from one end of Eight Avenue by the Munoz’s corner market to the other where little Angelica sits on her front porch, watching her brother, Jesus, throw small rocks at the few cars that pass. He completes the circuit, careful not to watch the sailors and hookers that trade tricks and drinks in the lobby of the cheap hotel, rates by the hour, by the day, by the week.

He hears the shots and Jeff shows up, staggering out of the darkness and blinking rapidly. Bobby hits his stride in a run as the gang comes around the corner, shooting at anything that moves and a few things that don’t. He’s outnumbered and outgunned and he turns to shout something to Jeff, but all he can see is blood where his partner used to be. Bobby fires three rounds and hits two, memorizing the sequence of events as he runs for cover behind a car bleeding daylight through shattered glass and blistered metal. Every bullet has to be accounted for as he comes out, popping up from behind the car and hitting two more. They’re dead behind the eyes even before the bullets hit them, and Bobby stares as one goes down. It’s just a split second out of time, and it all comes rushing back the minute something cold shatters Bobby’s spine and he finds himself on the sidewalk, his blood staining the gray crimson. 

He takes another one out, listening to the cries in Spanish, curse words and prayers. He looks up at the sky and blinks as little Angelica stands over him, rosary in hand, saying Hail Mary’s until he’s gone.


End file.
